This is the Way the World Ends
by darris7
Summary: "This is the way the world ends... not with a bang, but a whimper." Post 3X22.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own, nor am I affiliated with Gossip Girl. If I was, certain unspeakable events in the season three finale would never have happened… and I'm not talking about Chuck getting shot. _

_All poem excerpts are taken from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"_

_**Description**__: "This is the way the world ends… not with a bang, but a whimper." Post 3X22._

**THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS**

**A Gossip Girl Fan Fiction by darris7**

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang, but a whimper_

_T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"_

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER 1**

_Shape without form; shade without colour_

_Paralyzed force; gesture without motion_

* * *

Cold.

It's the only thing he's aware of. The frigid stone, the night air stirring faintly, the freezing, paralyzing chill spreading into every inch of his subconscious, holding him captive.

And then in an instant, it's all shattered.

Something strikes him hard across the face. A commanding voice shouts overhead, but he can't make out the words. Strong hands close over an area just below his ribs, and pain hits him, sweeps over him like a wave, drives away the cold away in one brief, excruciating half second.

And his eyes fly open.

City lights. Dancing, spinning. A whirl of colour.

Above stretches a night sky, peppered with stars barely visible beyond the red glow of the streetlights. Images swim before him, vague figures darting in and out of his blurred field of vision. More shouting, and then someone is shining a flashlight into his eyes, and still those strong hands are intensifying the pain radiating outward from the gunshot wound.

Because that's what it is. He remembers now. The bastards shot him. Shot him and took the ring.

They're speaking to him, asking him questions, but he can't understand the words. He struggles to remember where he is, but any semblance of coherent thought is dragged away by the confusion surrounding him. A voice to his right breaks through the haze briefly and he understands the words, heavily accented, but English nonetheless.

"Sir, can you tell me your name?"

_I'm Chuck Bass._

"Do you know where you are?"

_No one cares._

He wants to answer, but he knows if he opens his mouth right now, he'll be screaming.

God. _God._

The world is tilting sideways and it's several moments before he realizes that he's moving. The night sky gives way to a view of a pristine white ambulance ceiling. An oxygen mask closes over his mouth and nose. Doors slam closed. He lets his eyes fall shut again as the vehicle starts to move.

_Blair. Dancing on a crimson-lit stage. Throwing a teasing glance back over her shoulder. Laughing at the incredulous look on his face._

* * *

_Our dried voices, when_

_We whisper together_

_Are quiet and meaningless_

_As wind in dry grass_

_

* * *

_

His name breaks on her lips, but it's a scream, a cry rending the silence, dragging her upward and into the darkness.

Sometimes, in her dreams, she sees him. A blurred film noir scene borrowed from a romance that isn't her own. Sometimes she is in a breathtaking ball gown, tipping her head to smile in the direction of a multitude of admirers, and he's there, throwing amused glances at her from a corner of the room, dressed, as always, to the nines, martini in hand, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

_Tie perfectly knotted._

She tries to move across the room, but he evades her, always with that teasing, mocking smirk on his face.

Sometimes they're alone, just two figures in a darkened room under an art deco painting. Sometimes her dreams wake her with a heated flush on her cheeks and tears of remembrance in her eyes.

And then there's the worst kind of dream, the kind that pulls her out of a fitful sleep with a strangled scream on her lips. Those are the dreams where she loses him. She never quite manages to get there in time and it always, always ends the same way: Chuck held close in her arms, her fervent pleas for more time going unnoticed by the oblivious, crushing night around them. He never speaks, never imparts any profound last words, but his dark eyes hold hers until he slips away quietly with his hand still closed in hers.

It was one of those dreams that woke Blair Waldorf from a restless sleep at 2:23 am. She started upward, clutching at her blanket, brushing in frustration at the unbidden tears on her cheeks. By morning most of the dream would be forgotten, just like always. By morning it would be a hazy memory easily dismissed in the daylight. But now it was still echoing through her, sending her pulse through the roof.

Shaking, she reached for the bottle of water she had left on the bedside table several hours ago. Yanking her new Michael Kors handbag close, she rummaged inside until she found the small bottle of sleeping pills. She didn't often like to take them, but sometimes a dreamless sleep was worth the next day's grogginess. As she quickly swallowed two of the pills, she threw a sidelong glance at her best friend, asleep in the bed across from her. Serena's long blond mane was falling partially across her face, her expression peaceful. She had left Nate behind with such composure, but Blair knew her better than that; it would be months before Serena was herself again. But Paris had been a good start. For both of them.

Sighing, Blair curled herself back into the bed, arranging the blanket around her. The dreams had been plaguing her more than usual lately, making uninterrupted sleep almost impossible. She hadn't seen Chuck since the fallout at the hospital, but the constant dreams kept his face fresh in her mind. And the history between them stretched back so far that it was impossible to dismiss overnight.  
_  
__I thought you didn't love me._

But she did. Even now.

_I didn't care whether I lived or died_.

She cared.

Blair sighed again, fighting back the tears that threatened to well up. She was in _Paris,_ where she had already marveled at the Louvre and shopped on the Champs-Elysees and drank lattes at sidewalk cafes. And flirted with those French boys. More than enough distractions to forget about losing the love of her life.

But forgetting Chuck Bass would be the work of a lifetime.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own, nor am I affiliated with Gossip Girl. If I was, certain unspeakable events in the season three finale would never have happened… and I'm not talking about Chuck getting shot. _

_All poem excerpts are taken from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"_

_**Description**__: "This is the way the world ends… not with a bang, but a whimper." Post 3X22._

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

_At the hour when we are _

_Trembling with tenderness _

_Lips that would kiss _

_Form prayers to broken stone_

_

* * *

_

The first thing he's aware of is a voice.

Low, urgent.

The second is an electronic beeping noise, just loud enough to be irritating.

The third is that he is lying on his back, arms at his sides, but his entire position feels unnatural, as if someone has placed him here. And everything, _everything_ hurts.

"Mr. Bass?"

That voice again. He was asleep, floating somewhere dark and dreamless. Why disturb that?

"Mr. Bass, can you hear me?"

_Don't you understand? I'll always be here._

Back from the dead for less than ten seconds and already her voice is echoing through his aching skull.

_Whatever you want to do to yourself…._

He moans, surprising even himself when it comes out as more than a whisper. His throat feels like sandpaper.

"Mr. Bass."

He can feel his eyelids, crushing weights over his eyes, too heavy to lift.

_Please, don't do that to me._

_Damn you, Blair Waldorf._

It takes a remarkable effort, but he forces his eyes open, just a crack. The lights overhead are welcomingly dim. He is staring at neat grey ceiling tiles, each one side by side, with neat grey seams separating one from the next.

There is a faint movement to his right and a figure in a white lab coat materializes. He turns his head ever so slightly to observe her. She's a doctor, mid-thirties, dark-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose, hair falling in wisps around her tired face. She looks at him and smiles a tired smile. She is not Blair.

"Welcome back," she says, and her voice is accented, foreign.

He blinks, tries to moisten his lips with his tongue, tries to speak but nothing comes out. Tries again. "Where…."

"Na Homolce hospital, Mr. Bass. In _Praha._ Prague."

Prague.

He remembers. In a sickening half-second it all comes back. He remembers the dark alleyway, the frantic ambulance ride; remembers the crushing pain in his chest, the confusion everywhere, the way that her face was always there before him, her voice always with him. He remembers before that; remembers Jenny Humphrey's tears mingled with his own, remembers Dan's fist connecting with his face, remembers Blair half-screaming at him with that frenzied, mad gleam in her eyes.

He wants the dreamless, blameless dark again.

"I'm Dr. Masek," the white lab coat says, and he tries to pay attention. "You were brought here with a gunshot wound to your lower left chest."

She flips through his chart while she speaks, avoiding his eyes. "You were in surgery for several hours and needed to have a transfusion, but it looks like you're going to be fine." Her mouth curves into a thin line. A smile, meant to be reassuring.

"You had only your passport and some cash with you when you were found," she continues. "You are from New York, yes?"

He begins to nod, but the simple movement sends pain cascading through his skull. "Yes."

She checks the IV drip, frowning. "There must be someone we can call there."

And now she's actually looking at him, something akin to empathy in her expression.

He thinks of Blair, thinks of the staggering finality in her words at the hospital in New York. So long ago. He thinks of Nate, and the coldness in those grey eyes when he learned about Jack and the Empire and the whole damn, stupid _mess_. He even thinks of Lily and the disappointment and shock in her face while she stood next to Rufus in the foyer, watching the unthinkable unfold in front of her.

_My father always thought I was weak._

He could get on a phone right now, call any one of them, and they'd be there, no question. They'd get on a plane and arrive exhausted, faces drawn with worry and concern, full of reassuring words. They'd feel sorry for him. Sorry enough to forgive even the astronomical mistakes of the past several weeks. A clean slate, a new start.

_And in the moment that mattered most, I was_.

He looks at Dr. Masek.

"No," he says. "There's no one."

* * *

_Between the conception_

_And the creation _

_Between the emotion _

_And the response _

_Falls the Shadow_

_

* * *

_

Blair angled her head toward the fountain, enjoying the gentle spray, a welcome cool on a hot day. The Place de la Concorde was a curious collision of cultures and histories; the mythic Grecian statues rising from the water, the Renaissance architecture of the square, the Egyptian obelisk stretching skyward like an accusatory finger. It was said that here Marie Antionette was executed in front of a bloodthirsty, revolutionary mob.

Every queen must fall.

Serena was making no attempt to blend in, sporting a camera bag over one shoulder and a giant map of Paris in the other. She looked over at Blair and laughed.

"Hey B, you remember that scene from _The Devil Wears Prada_?"

Blair smiled. "I remember that dress Anne Hathaway's wearing in it."

Serena joined her friend at the edge of the fountain. "Kind of wish_ I_ could just chuck my cell phone in there right now and never go home."

Blair perched herself on the lip of the basin and stared down into the green water. "Well, where to now, S?"

"There's a nice little café over there," Serena replied inclining her head towards the end of the square. "I feel like lunch."

Blair stood, stretching her arms overhead. "Me too… these heels are killing me."

"B, I told you not to wear those today," Serena chided, throwing a sidelong glance at the new pair of bright yellow Jimmy Choos. "But they _are_ gorgeous."

Blair laughed, falling into step next to her friend. "They match the bag!" She swung the purse in front of her. "S, it still has that new Louis Vuitton smell."

Serena giggled along with her. A minute or two brought them to the doorway of a sidewalk café. Serena stopped to peruse the menu, muttering to herself as she translated the French. Blair sighed, glancing back across the square towards the fountain.

Dark eyes met hers.

She blinked. Impossible. Not here.

Serena was asking her something, but there was a strange buzzing in her ears and she could hardly hear her.

"B, what…."

And Serena turned as well, and her mouth fell open. And Blair knew she wasn't dreaming.

Dressed to kill. Every hair in place. A dark-skinned brunette on his arm.

Chuck Bass was striding across the square towards her.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own, nor am I affiliated with Gossip Girl. If I was, certain unspeakable events in the season three finale would never have happened… and I'm not talking about Chuck getting shot. _

_All poem excerpts are taken from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"_

_**Description**__: "This is the way the world ends… not with a bang, but a whimper." Post 3X22._

* * *

**"THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS"**

**CHAPTER 3**

**

* * *

**

_We are the hollow men_

_We are the stuffed men_

_Leaning together_

_Headpiece filled with straw_**  
**

_

* * *

_Blair felt like her world was crashing around her. It wasn't enough that he had shown up here, in Paris, wasn't enough that she'd told him to leave her alone against the backdrop of the Place de la Concorde, wasn't enough that he had simply smiled and told her he would drop by the hotel later so they could have a proper conversation. Now he stood in her doorway, having somehow obtained her hotel room number and access to the exclusive wing reserved for serious patrons. The inevitable Chuck Bass. As unstoppable as ever._  
_

Serena tossed a nervous glance at her best friend.

"Maybe I'll… give you two a minute."

And despite Blair's gaze boring a hole through the back of her head, she slid quietly out of the room. Chuck watched her go absentmindedly, then turned back to face Blair. He smiled slightly, just lifting the corner of his mouth, that same familiar smirk he'd worn so many times before.

"You look great. Paris suits you."

She rolled her eyes. "What do you want, Bass?"

He waved a hand toward the sofa. "Maybe we should sit down."

She shook her head, just one sharp jerk to the right. "No; you won't be here that long."

He sighed faintly, leaning casually on the bar. "Alright then. Go ahead."

She crossed her arms in front of her, swinging the new Louis Vuitton. "_You_ came to see me."

He nodded. "But I'm well aware that I won't get a word in edgewise until you've had your vent, so go ahead."

_Damn. _

She attempted to maintain a semblance of calm, though inwardly she was writhing. She didn't know if she was more livid over the fact that he knew her so well or the fact that he had the unrivaled _gall_ to show up here. In the place where she was supposed to be forgetting him. In her sanctuary. And then just stand there, those intense, dark, calculating eyes gazing straight through her, dragging out her every insecurity and secret and laying each one on display. There had been a time when she was an enigma to him, a time when she could still hide herself behind a pair of Jimmy Choos, wrap herself into a Michael Kors and disappear behind folds of soft designer fabric and limited edition headbands. It was a pleasing enough disguise, and very few had ever seen through it.

But he had.

The first time had been the night that her dress wound up around her ankles on a stage under smoky red lights, just drunk enough not to care, but not so drunk that she didn't remember the way a slow smile had crept over his face as he raised his glass. She had often reflected in the years following that it had been the first time _anyone_ had really seen her. That it was Chuck Bass watching her, shaking his head in bewilderment, telling her how amazing she was, kissing her, somehow made it more complete. Because she knew how well he could hide too.

Facing him down now, she noted that there was a kind of openness in his expression. She found it almost disarming. Defensive Chuck she could deal with. Distant Chuck she could win back. But the man before her now was someone she hardly knew. Either he knew he couldn't hide from her, or he just didn't want to bother trying. He knew she could tear him to shreds where he stood but he was making no effort to protect himself.

So he wanted to play head games.

But she still had words.

And Blair Waldorf was a master of words. They were weapons in her battle-weathered hands.

She took a deep breath.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Chuck. You show up here with_ her_ on your arm, as if nothing went wrong, as if you're just dropping in to see how our summer's going. After I told you I never wanted to speak to you again."

He nodded again. "You did."

She took a step toward him. He was holding his ground, waiting, eyes narrowed in careful perusal. He knew what was coming. He'd seen it before. A Blair Waldorf smack-down of epic proportions.

"Is it_ impossible_, Chuck, for the two of us to just get on with our lives? Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to move past this? But_ you_ keep showing up at the all the wrong times like you can't stand the idea of me having a normal, _happy_ life that doesn't include any of your masochistic, twisted, emotional rollercoaster issues."

She was moving toward him now, rapidly closing the space between them. And he was in retreat, backing up slowly, gaze still locked with hers. He wasn't smiling now.

"Whatever fantasy world you think you live in, you live there alone. You fooled yourself into thinking I was every bit as twisted as you are. We might have hatched a scheme together now and then, but you should've seen a long time ago that no one, not even me, could really ever understand the complex disaster that is Chuck Bass."

She was still advancing, but he'd run out of room now. Sighing, he leaned back against the wall, waiting for the final blow.

"I thought I could love you. I thought I could stand by you through anything. And instead of returning the favour, you _used_ me." She was just feet from him now, anger driving the articulation in every word, making her feel strong, confident. She had him right where she wanted him.

"You show up here, expecting me to hear you out, when I already _have_, Chuck, I already have and you know what? It's the same old story. You never _change_."

On the final word, she shoved the handbag she was holding in front of her hard into his torso, bringing herself inches from his face.

"You never will."

To her utter amazement, he didn't retaliate immediately. Or at all. Instead, he made a harsh sound at the back of his throat, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, grimaced slightly, and slid into a seated position at her feet, resting his forehead against his knees. Of all the responses she'd expected, this was certainly last on the list. She cast a suspicious glance at the Louis Vuitton before tossing it aside and dropping to her knees beside him, all traces of anger gone in an instant.

"Chuck… are you okay? I didn't mean to…"

He didn't answer her, just wrapped his right arm around his midriff protectively. She frowned in confusion. She hadn't meant to hurt him, nor could she have exerted enough force to do any serious damage. Goodness knows Chuck had already endured a fair amount of slapping and punching at her hand over the years, but none of it had ever been intended to harm. And this had certainly never been his response before.

He raised his head and leaned it back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes momentarily.

"I _really_ wish you wouldn't have done that."

Her frown deepened. "Done _what_? What's wrong?"

He sighed again, opened his eyes, and gave her a withering look. "Nothing, Blair. It's nothing. But I think…"

He winced, adjusting his position and freeing the arm that was wrapped in front of him. As he brought his hand around into the light, Blair's heart plummeted into the earth. Chuck stared at the crimson smattering on his fingertips and let out a short, derisive laugh.

"Figures."

Horrified, she shrank away from him. "Did I…. _do_ that?"

He gave her another weary half-smile. "With your fabulous new limited-edition Louis Vuitton? No, Blair, don't worry, it wasn't you."

She edged closer, sure that he could hear the unnatural rhythm of her heart banging its way up into her throat. Chuck had pulled aside his suit jacket and was examining an area just below his ribs. She followed his perusal with her eyes and felt suddenly nauseous.

"_God_, Chuck…."

He looked almost annoyed, and his tone when he spoke was clipped, short. "It's fine. But I think you'd better take me to a hospital."

She didn't think, didn't dare ask questions, just threaded her arm under his and helped him to stand. She heard him draw a hissing inhale through clenched teeth, but once he was upright, he shrugged off her arm, keeping only his left hand protectively held against his side. She dove for her phone and the hotel room key, threw them both unceremoniously into her bag, then looped her arm through his free one and helped him toward the door. He was walking evenly, but he didn't shake off the support. She stole a glance up at him and noted the hard line of his jaw and the pronounced creases around his eyes. As she punched the elevator button with a shaking hand, he looked down at her and attempted a smile.

"I'm fine," he told her. "Really."

She nodded vaguely, drew a deep breath, and gripped his arm a little tighter as they stepped onto the elevator, wishing Chuck Bass was a better liar.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: Did you hear? I'm Gossip Girl. Heh. Except not._

**Thanks for all the positive feedback everyone! This is my first attempt at a GG fanfiction, so it's good to hear that I'm on the right track!**

**

* * *

**

**"THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS"**

**Chapter 4**

**

* * *

**

_This is the dead land_

_This is the cactus land_

_Here the stone images_

_Are raised_  
_

* * *

_

Blair curled her fingers nervously around the arm of the plastic chair. She had long since given up on flipping through the hopelessly outdated magazines that littered the table in front of her. The sickly pale green walls enclosing the small waiting area closed in ominously. She picked up her cellphone and twirled it absentmindedly across her palm, half-listening to the gentle pattering of the rain on the window.

She had spent several very frustrating minutes on the phone with Serena, who wanted answers that Blair didn't have. Serena had offered to join her at the hospital, but Blair had told her not to worry about it; she would call with news when she had some. In the meantime, she almost welcomed the opportunity to be alone with her thoughts. Sighing, she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

The last several weeks had been pure therapy. The dreams still plagued her by night, but during the day she was almost herself again. She had allowed herself to smile, to return a teasing glance on a street corner, to laugh. Occasionally there were things that reminded her, forced an unwelcome memory on her like a punch to the gut; a man carrying carnations, a sleek black limo rolling past her. Most of the time she could brush these memories aside, but once or twice she had been forced to rummage a little too urgently in her bag for her opaque Prada sunglasses.

She had known of course that she would have to face him again someday. She had rehearsed that meeting in her head a thousand times. She was secretly furious that he had caught her so off guard that afternoon. All her practiced coldness was lost in a surprised, stammering greeting. Serena had simply glared at her step-brother and returned his inquiries with clipped, monosyllabic answers. But Chuck himself had seemed collected, at ease, perfectly comfortable. He had introduced the woman as Eva, his girlfriend. _Girlfriend_. But Chuck Bass didn't have relationships. He had one night stands, fleeting encounters that meant nothing.

Until Blair.

She had signed up for that train wreck. She had committed herself to that disaster waiting to happen. She made that decision the night of her mother's wedding, when he showed up unannounced in her bedroom, falling apart in little pieces in her arms, holding on to her for dear life. She, such a poor saviour. She could hardly save herself. Yet he had chosen her.

The strange thing was, even now, she didn't regret it.

She remembered the girl she used to be. The up-and-coming socialite with a headband to match every outfit, the queen bee who had minions, not friends. She remembered the obsessive hours spent in front of the mirror making sure every hair was in place, applying her mask a little piece at a time because no one was allowed to see the real Blair Waldorf. Not Nate. Not Serena. Not even Dorota. No one was allowed to see her sobbing on the bathroom floor, purging her latest meal, her life, her soul.

_Your eyes are doing that thing where they don't match your mouth._

Chuck had come to her just as broken, desperately seeking approval in the eyes of a man who could never be satisfied, driven to physical pleasures as a method of escaping reality. He had figured that if you were going to be labeled as the black sheep, might as well live up to the title. So when they collided, two lost children hiding behind the same mask, walking the same road, the result should have been explosive; it should have been a downward spiral into mutual ruin.

Instead, something remarkable happened.

Blair let fall her mask. And so did Chuck. And they each found in themselves their best qualities and offered them to the other person, unaware perhaps that change was happening at the time, but desperately committed nonetheless, learning patience, empathy and understanding. Real love. Life-altering and terrifying.

_I know you better than I know myself._

He had failed her. And she him. She had told him that she hated the person she had become, and maybe at the end that was true, but now, looking back, she realized that the face in the mirror was now someone she knew better, appreciated more, and didn't want to hide. In the grand scheme of things, she was better for having known him.

That's what she had seen in his face that afternoon. What she had interpreted as head games and manipulation was something else entirely. It was peace.

She was startled from her reverie by the shrill ringing of her cellphone. She flipped it open, noting the New York area code.

"Hello?"

"Blair, honey, is everything okay?"

Lily. Of course Serena would have called Lily. Yet another conversation full of questions she couldn't answer. Blair stifled a sigh.

"Lily, hi."

"Serena says that Charles showed up in Paris and now you're at a _hospital?_"

"Yes. I don't know exactly what's wrong. I'm just waiting."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line and Blair heard Lily say, "I _will_, Eric, just give me a minute." A moment later she was back.

"Blair, do I need to be getting on a flight here?"

Blair glanced down the hall and saw a young doctor exiting a room with a chart in his hand, striding purposefully toward.

"No, I don't think so. Lily, the doctor's on his way over now. I'll call you back, okay?"

She didn't sound reassured. "Okay."

She snapped the phone closed and stood. The doctor gave her a brief smile as he extended his hand. She was expecting a French accent when he spoke but instead a cultured British accent punctuated his words. "Ms. Waldorf? I'm Dr. Morris."

She stood and took his hand, hoping that he wouldn't notice how badly hers were shaking. He gestured to the chair next to hers.

"Shall we sit down?"

He flipped through the chart quickly as he seated himself next to her. "Are you a relative of Mr. Bass?"

She dropped her eyes. "No, I'm a... friend."

He nodded. "Well, it looks like everything is fine. We repaired the stitches and advised him to take it easy for a couple days so there's no further tearing. We also gave him a mild antibiotic to prevent any infection."

"Stitches?" She twisted her hands together in her lap.

Dr. Morris looked slightly confused. "Yes. I spoke with a Dr. Masek at the Na Homolce hospital in Prague. It seems she was his attending physician there."

_I didn't care whether I lived or died._

Blair shook her head slowly. "I haven't really been in touch with him all summer. I don't know exactly what happened."

Dr. Morris gave her a sympathetic smile. "My apologies, Ms. Waldorf. It seems there was an incident in Prague about a month ago. Mr. Bass was shot."

A month. While she roamed Paris, oblivious.

_Tell me it was for something._

Her mouth was so dry.

"I'm sorry ... I ... _shot_?"

The doctor nodded. "A couple of muggers, by the sounds of things. He was released from Na Homolce only last week." He paused, studying her for a moment. "You can go and see him if you like."

* * *

It's raining in Paris.

He watches the skyline through the window, the buildings blurred together by the streams of water chasing each other down the glass. He lets out a long sigh, wincing slightly when the simple movement causes him pain. He's back in his own clothes now, stitched up all over again, good as new, yet another prescription in a doctor's untidy scrawl folded into his inside pocket. He leans his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes.

He should call Eva. She'll be worried.

Eva is not Blair. She doesn't have a way with words and she wouldn't die for him. But she does understand him. She does listen.

Blair will have questions, a multitude of them. She'll want to know why, _why_ Chuck, _God_, why didn't you _call_? He's not sure that he's prepared to answer that question yet.

It's a strange thing, watching your life bleed out of you onto cold cobblestones. Any last perusal of your existence is lost in blind panic. You realize that you'll be spending your final moments hyperventilating, not evaluating. The shock takes over quickly and pulls you into hazy oblivion, but there is still a logical fragment of your brain that says_ fight, now_; _you still have something to live for._ Your life doesn't exactly flash before your eyes, but you do remember certain things. Important things. Who you are. Who you love.

At night he dreams about cold, red, deserted alleyways. More than once he's woken up screaming.

In the next several hours he knows he will be fielding a deluge of phonecalls from home. Concerned friends and family wanting answers, Nate and Lily undoubtedly leading the pack. And he'll have to say a hundred times over _I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry, everything's okay._ He doesn't want their pity. Doesn't want their words of encouragement. Doesn't want their sympathy.

But right now, he does want her.

There is a soft noise from the other end of the room and he turns in time to see the door swing inward. Blair is standing there, caught somewhere between running back out into the hallway and throwing herself into his arms. The tears are streaming down her face.


	5. Chapter 5

**"THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS"**

**By darris7  
**

**CHAPTER 5**

* * *

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. But I still like messing with it. :)_

Thanks again for all the positive reviews! I will probably have one final chapter after this one, but this has been really fun! My first foray into GG fan fiction has turned out to be a very positive experience. :)

* * *

_Between the idea _

_And the reality _

_Between the motion _

_And the act _

_Falls the Shadow_

_

* * *

__She stares out the window at the lights flashing past, lost in the cacophony of colour that is New York on an autumn evening. At the opposite end of the limo seat, he tilts his head, watching her quietly for a moment. She catches his gaze._

"_Thanks for the lift home."_

_He shakes his head slowly. "You were…." he searches in vain for the right adjective, finally landing on one that fits, "__amazing__ … up there." _

_It doesn't nearly do justice._

_She smiles, edging closer, sliding coyly across the seat towards him. He waits, letting her come. She's inches from him. Dark curls are brushing his face. She holds there for a moment, studying him, her expression almost appraising. And then she closes the distance, her lips find his, and the world turns over._

_It's a masterpiece, a symphony, a spectacular array of fireworks, the whole world crashing down._

_He pulls away, every fiber in his being screaming. He has to know first._

"_You sure?"_

_She doesn't answer, but this time when she closes the gap between them there is no hindrance, no hesitation. He takes her into his arms and the fireworks are burning out of control, a raging inferno destroying everything, and he doesn't care._

_

* * *

__Between the conception _

_And the creation _

_Between the emotion _

_And the response _

_Falls the Shadow_

_

* * *

_

_She strides into the room, indignation in every step._

"_What do you think you're doing here?"_

_He turns at the sound of her voice and her breath catches uncomfortably in her chest._

_We all fall apart. Long days and longer nights bring us to our knees. Some tiny thing, some otherwise insignificant event becomes that proverbial last straw and under it we break. We find corners to crawl into, pillows to vent at. We say to ourselves "this is nothing, this is nothing, hold on, it can only go up from here." But we do all this alone. Because to stand in pieces before another person is to admit that you are just like them. And if you're Chuck Bass and your whole identity is founded on the often elusive concept of image, dismantling yourself in front of someone else is something you only do when your fingers, stretched overhead, reaching desperately, are still just brushing rock bottom._

_He doesn't even try to stop the tears that are already free-falling onto the pristine white sheets. His eyes find hers and he watches the anger leave her face, evaporating. He wants to say something. Wants to tell her._

_But he doesn't need to._

_She hesitates for only a moment, and then she throws herself on him, wraps both arms around him, holds him as tightly as she dares. For a moment he is rigid in her arms, fending off the support out of instinct, and then he gives in and reaches for her hand, leaning into her like a child, letting go._

_

* * *

__Between the desire _

_And the spasm _

_Between the potency _

_And the existence _

_Between the essence _

_And the descent_

_Falls the Shadow_

_

* * *

__She smiles as she tugs the covers free and climbs into the bed beside him. She doesn't mean to wake him but he stirs anyway as she wraps her left arm around to rub his shoulder._

"_Hey," she says softly. Still half asleep, he doesn't reply, just takes her hand and intertwines his fingers with hers._

"_You were right about the dorms," she murmurs. "The lighting is awful."_

_Still nothing. She pulls him a little closer._

"_You okay?"_

_He tightens his hand around hers. Sighs._

"_I am now," he says._

_

* * *

_

_This is the way the world ends_

_

* * *

_

_He watches her go, face still stinging from her parting blow. He can't believe he actually just tried to blame her for this mess._

_

* * *

__This is the way the world ends_

_

* * *

_

_She touches the pink carnations gingerly, afraid that they'll disintegrate beneath her hand, and wonders how long he waited._

_

* * *

_

_This is the way the world ends_

_

* * *

_

_He just wants the ring back; it's all he has left of her. Just like the faceless suits, these men will take her away too. And he can't bear that._

_

* * *

_

_Not with a bang, but a whimper_

* * *

It has all lead to this._  
_

The grounds of l'Hopital St-Louis were expansive, a complex array of green smattered with occasional splashes of brighter colour. The bench Blair settled nervously onto was situated near a pond. A small wooden bridge arched over the water and afforded a view of several ducks paddling enthusiastically across the mirrored surface. Chuck took a seat beside her and watched the scenery quietly for a moment while she studied him wordlessly. He looked a little pale, but he was still Chuck. He turned to look at her and lifted the corner of his mouth wryly.

"Well…. where shall we start? Or did you have further injuries to inflict first?"

She felt her cheeks burn as she lowered her gaze. He must know that she hadn't meant to hurt him. She glanced up at him and saw the teasing gleam in his eyes. She was safe.

"The doctor said there was an incident in Prague," she began, surprised that her voice sounded so even.

Chuck merely nodded.

"He said that you… were," she struggled with the word, hung on it for a second, "… shot."

He nodded again. "A couple of idiots outside a club in the red light district. I wasn't exactly cooperative."

She swallowed, twisting her fingers together in her lap. She simultaneously longed for and dreaded all the painful little details that must follow.

"And then?"

He sighed, re-adjusted his position on the bench, leaning towards her. "And then, Blair, I was left alone in an alleyway."

He watched the colour drain slowly from her face. She was staring at him like a bystander at an accident scene. Like she was witnessing something too horrific to dismiss.

"Did you… get help?" she managed.

He shook his head. "I was in and out. Shock. Someone found me. I don't know who. I don't remember very much until the paramedics got there. I was taken to Na Homolce and the emergency room was a blur, and then at some point they knocked me out again and took me into surgery."

He could almost see the wheels turning in her head, her over-active imagination conjuring up a display of terrifying images to match his narrative.

"Surgery?"

He ground his teeth together, wishing she hadn't asked for elaboration on that point.

"It wasn't a through and through."

She swallowed. He watched her warily as her eyes fluttered closed. She drew in a deep breath. Her hands, clenched together in her lap, were shaking now.

"Then what … was it?"

He lowered his eyes from hers, searching in vain for a less painful euphemism that would make this easier on her. Regrettably, none came to mind. For a moment he considered outright lying. But he couldn't do that with Blair. She would see through it in a second. She would call him out.

_It will be easier if you say it quickly._

_Easier for who?_

He raised his head to look at her. She was waiting with a patience very unlike her. Still shaking.

"The bullet collapsed my lung and damaged my liver. I was in surgery for about five hours while they removed it and stopped the bleeding."

She nodded. Tears were pooling in her eyes, but she was resolutely fighting them off. He prayed that she wouldn't ask for further details. He remembered so much more than he would ever let on.

The brain has a remarkably short memory for pain. Which is why we can return to activities that have the potential to hurt us, despite recollections of prior injuries. It's why a quarterback will be soldiering back for the next game, even though he's got a tapestry of bruises to attest to the fact that his defensive line didn't do their jobs. It's why a dancer will tape up the blisters and down the Advil and step out on the stage with an almost-sincere smile because, after all, the show must go on. And it will hurt now, but later we won't remember. We'll survive.

_What doesn't kill you …. will just haunt you for life. _

When Chuck thought back to the murky images that constituted his memory of those events, he was always surprised by one fact: he remembered exactly what it had felt like. Every horrific, intimate detail, every sensation was still fresh in his mind. As if it were yesterday. To be sure, he'd experienced physical pain before. Chuck Bass understood pain probably better than most. Everything from the head-splitting agony of a morning-after headache to the startling sensation when your pseudo-girlfriend kicks you in the shins, to the desperate, soul-numbing pain of losing what you love most. Had he the words, the ability to turn a phrase like Dan or Vanessa, he could write an encyclopedia on the subject. A detailed best-selling analysis of pain in all its many forms; self-inflicted would probably be the biggest chapter. They say write what you know after all. And of course a follow-up work: how to self- medicate that pain.

This had been different though. This had been something beyond words, beyond description. The kind of pain that was all-encompassing, paralyzing. Even now, when he thought back, it was all he could remember: the _closeness_, the reality.

She was silent, her gaze dropped to study her hands. She looked suddenly so tired.

"I only remember bits and pieces of the days after that because the morphine had me in and out," he said, eager now to finish the story and get this over with. "A week or so afterwards I was a little more coherent, and I was able to get up and move around. A couple weeks after that, I was released with strict instructions to take it easy."

She swallowed. "And you came here."

He sighed. "Yes. I came here."

"Why?" The word burst out of her before she could stop it. "Why - didn't you _call_, or something?"

His facade crumbled, for a moment overcome with the emotion he normally kept so strictly at bay. Not caring anymore what she thought, he reached across the bench and took her hand in his. It was like ice. He watched a single tear trail down her ashen cheek.

"_This_ is why, Blair," he replied, lifting his free hand to brush away the errant tear. "Don't… you think that – maybe – I've put you through enough already?"

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She just shook her head. Adamantly. Tears falling freely now. And she reached forward and put her arms around him. He pulled her in and held her, moments from tears himself.

"Chuck," she whispered into his shoulder. "What do we do now?"

He pulled away from her and held her at arms length. She was waiting. He did his best to smile.

"We go home."


End file.
